


Spin the Bottle

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: High School, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Pre-Series Wincest, Sibling Incest, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: The party, Sam will insist until his dying day, was Dean’s idea. One of the kids he works with had mentioned the party off-hand, said his older brother was going to be at it. He said it was going to be, quote, insane. Of course, that means that Dean has to go, and he definitely has to drag Sam out with him.





	Spin the Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Underage tags because Sam is still in high school in this, in my head he's 16. Mature rating because there's no actually explicit content, but it's heavily implied.
> 
> This has been read over once, but per my usual policy of throwing any fic I've finished at the Internet before I can over-think it, it is not properly edited. Let me know if there's any glaring errors.

The party, Sam will insist until his dying day, was Dean’s idea.

Dean heard about it at work, just another of a string of endless menial minimum-wage jobs he’s worked since he was old enough for people to believe the age on his fake ID and then still, once he was _actually_ old enough to work. This time it’s at a grocery store, stocking shelves at night and helping little old ladies put groceries in their car. One of the kids he works with had mentioned the party off-hand, said _his_ older brother was going to be at it. He said it was going to be, quote, _insane._

Of course, that means that Dean has to go, and he definitely has to drag Sam out with him.

Ultimately, Sam doesn’t _hate_ parties. He’s just not a huge fan of _this kind_ of party: loud and crowded and reeking of shitty beer, too-sweet perfume, and terrible, cheap cologne. Dean, of course, loves these kinds of parties the best.

And, of course, Dean ditches him at the door with a, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” called behind him, disappearing into the crowd immediately.

Never mind that the list of things Dean _would_ do is long and mostly illegal. Sometimes Sam thinks that the differences between he and Dean must be God’s way of subtly punishing him for all the bad things he does on a regular basis.

After moping over it by the door for a minute, Sam sighs and goes looking for a drink that isn’t the awful, cheap beer that’s going tacky under his shoes.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t catch the name of the drink he’s handed – he’s not actually sure if it was a _drink_ name or just the name of the liquor – but it’s sweet and it’s not five-dollar beer, so it’s fine. He takes his over-full cup of it with him back out of the kitchen and heads toward the basement, where there seems to be less people gathered based on the noise level.

This is where the music is coming from, he realizes when he gets to the bottom of the stairs and sees two massive speakers in two corners and multiple littler speakers scattered around them. It looks like most of the furniture has been pushed to one side of the room to allow for a sort of dance floor on one side, by the sound system. It _is_ less crowded down here, but only barely – there’s probably thirty people writhing around the dance floor half, and another twenty or more piled on and around the pushed-back furniture.

From the direction of the couches and chairs, he can smell a mix of cigarettes and weed. He heads over that way, assuming that group will be a little less energetic.

His assumption about the energy level of this half of the room turns out to be correct – there’s a joint being passed around and what looks like the remains of two others already on the floor that Sam can see. He recognizes a few classmates immediately – a few he’s got classes with and a few more he knows just because they’re popular or residents of the rumor mill (or both).

He tosses his now-empty cup toward what looks like a trashcan off to the side (and hopes it actually is a trashcan, and not just a crouched person – the haze of smoke makes it hard to see). One of the classmates he knows spots him then and gestures him into the vaguely defined “circle” of people. He thinks her name is Christine, maybe Catherine. Something with a C, either way.

He follows her direction and gets pulled to the floor between Jacob, the resident drug dealer, and Howard, who’s known for fucking anything on two legs with a pulse. The joint is passed to him right away, though he isn’t sure if that’s because he got plopped right into the line of passing or because whoever had it figured he deserved a hit because he just joined. He shrugs and takes the hit and lets Jacob take it from his fingers. He figures this is a good place to chill until Dean gets bored and finds him again.

The conversation is easy and directionless. Sam takes a hit every time the joint gets passed to him, and at some point he realizes there must have been more than just the one because…whoa, he’s high. He leans his head back against the armchair that’s situated more-or-less behind him and giggles when the world trails several inches behind the movement.

Yeah, he’s high. Hopefully Dean stays sober enough, or they’re going to have to sleep in the Impala.

 

* * *

 

Time passes weird for Sam when he’s high. Either too fast or two slow, sometimes both – like his head is running ahead of his body, and his body is stuck in molasses. It’s hard to describe. Even harder when he’s, well, high.

He doesn’t do this very often, get stoned. He usually only does it when Dean does, which isn’t a lot, because Dean prefers alcohol to weed, but Sam doesn’t like getting drunk.

He likes the high from weed a lot more. He’s chilled out, sort of detached, but fully aware of himself and his actions. It’s preferable to drunkenness, because alcohol makes him giggly and too-affectionate and prone to forgetting what he says and does.

But time still passes oddly when he’s high, so he doesn’t know how long it’s been when Christine/Catherine grabs his arm and tugs him around, into a slightly different “circle” than before. Everyone laughs, including him, when his foot gets caught and he goes sprawling into the center of everyone for a moment.

“C’mon, Sam, you gotta play too,” Christine/Catherine says. It takes a second for Sam to reorient himself and register what she said.

“Play what?” he asks, almost immediately distracted by the sight of his hands when he brushes the dust off his jeans. They look so _weird._

He realizes suddenly that Christine/Catherine has probably answered him but he wasn’t paying attention. “Sorry. What again?”

She just laughs, so he figures he’s fine. Or maybe she’s just as high as him and didn’t notice. “Spin the bottle.”

He shrugs. He doesn’t really see a reason not to play. “Sure.”

He doesn’t notice who goes first – he got distracted by his hands again – but he does watch a few of the turns. They range from awkward and hilarious to _maybe you two should get a room,_ and Sam finds he can’t always predict which it’s going to be. That just makes it even more fun, especially when Jacob’s spin lands on Howard and someone Sam doesn’t know groans, “Just shove them in a closet already, this is going to take for _ever._ ”

Sam thought the two of them were straight, despite Howard’s general reputation (Sam’s fully versed in high school rumors and puts about as much stock into them as he does the psychics at county fairs). He finds it stupidly funny that he was wrong, but no one questions his giggling.

Eventually (time is _weird_ ) it’s Sam’s turn. The bottle lands on a brunette across the circle he doesn’t know. She’s the one who moves, though Sam was pretty sure he was supposed to, but he’s too stoned to process quickly so before he knows it she’s in front of him. She leans down instead of kneeling, giving him a killer view of her cleavage, and pecks him on the cheek. He grins dopily at her and she rolls her eyes before going and sitting back down.

The game continues on. Sam loses track again when he looks up to find Dean walking toward the circle. He grins and waves, but Dean raises an eyebrow in question. Sam shakes his head and gestures to the bottle in the middle, where someone is in the process of spinning it around. He figures it’s self-explanatory.

Dean’s eyebrows raise again but he smirks and veers to the side, tapping the shoulder of the brunette that had kissed Sam. She shuffles to the side, shoving the girl next to her, so they can make room for Dean to sit. He gives Sam a _look_ across the circle and Sam shudders, pretending not to notice.

Sam loses track of the turns again, too focused on either Dean or the current couple to notice who’s doing the spinning, but then Dean has the bottle and it occurs to Sam that his brother is planning something.

If he wasn’t so high, Dean joining the game would have been a dead giveaway; he hates these kinds of games. He’d always told Sam, “If you want to make out with a bunch of random people, just do it.” But Sam _is_ high, and it doesn’t hit him what’s going on until Dean throws him an _incredibly obvious_ wink across the circle.

Dean’s too good at this type of thing to miss. He’s had practice, fucking around with bottles since they were kids, seeing if he can get it to land where he wants. Despite never playing these games and never wanting to, he could do whatever ( _whoever_ ) he wants in them.

Sam swallows hard and thinks about looking away but doesn’t. He was never very good at taking his eyes off of Dean anyway. Dean’s got a look in his eyes, one that says he’s a predator and Sam is prey, and it makes Sam’s heartbeat kick up a notch. That look usually turns up when they’re alone and wearing a lot less clothing.

Someone jeers, goading Dean on – Sam glances away for a split second, and when he turns back, the bottle is wobbling to a stop. Pointing directly at him.

There’s some murmuring, a call or two for a retry, but Sam’s officially tuned out because Dean’s coming towards him from across the circle, looking determined. Someone could set off a bomb and he probably wouldn’t notice, not with Dean looking at him like that.

“Sammy,” Dean says when he’s close, close enough to share body heat and to feel his breath.

Sam worries his bottom lip for a second, tasting copper. “Dean.”

“You good?”

Fuck, but he is. This is such a bad idea. “Yeah.”

Dean’s on him the minute the word leaves his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam almost wishes he could say this is the first time he and Dean have made out in front of an audience. _Almost,_ because if he’s honest he gets off on it just as much as Dean does, not that he’s ever going to be that honest. Especially not to Dean.

Regardless, this _isn’t_ the first time he and Dean have done this, and Sam _does_ like it as much as his brother. What gives him that almost-wish is that this time is startlingly different than all the rest. Sure, it’s _basically_ the same – a party, they’re both intoxicated, Dean has no sense of propriety and gets handsy, everyone stares on in disgust, interest, or both – but there’s one _very important_ difference between this and the other dozens of times:

Pretty much everyone here knows they’re brothers.

All the other times Dean’s pulled this stunt at parties, no one has known they’re related. Before Dean dropped out of school, it was because they’ve never _looked_ like brothers and teenagers don’t care about things like last names, or because the parties they were going to were not populated by the same kids they went to school with. After Dean dropped out it was just because they don’t look related; if anyone saw them together, around town or if Dean picked Sam up from school, they usually just assumed _best friends_ or, yeah, _dating._ They usually weren’t in a place long enough for it to matter.

But this time, their enrolled Sam in school _and_ got Dean his job; the cat had been out of the bag as soon as John had paraded their legal names around. So far they’d been good at acting like brothers – brothers who were too close and probably spent too much time together, sure, but that couldn’t be avoided. They acted like brothers, nonetheless.

Which makes this particular stunt of Dean’s  _incredibly_ stupid and also _scorching hot._

 

* * *

 

 

Sam is positive he heard some disgusted scoffing and people leaving, but that had been about the point that Dean had straddled his lap and he was officially no longer paying any attention to anything that isn’t Dean.

Or, well. Anything that isn’t Dean and Sam’s own suddenly persistent hard-on.

Dean kisses like he fights, which is to say he’s actually pretty subtle clear up until he’s very much _not;_ Sam’s sucking in breath through his nose and sucking on Dean’s tongue before he’s quite realized they’ve progressed way past “appropriate for a high school party”. Never mind that this,  _them,_ isn't appropriate for anywhere.

After several incredibly dizzy moments of tonsil hockey, Dean moves back. His eyes are fever-bright, and a quick glance down confirms that he’s just as hard as Sam.

“Should get outta here,” Sam rasps. Dean laughs and looks around, winking at some of the kids still sitting and staring.

Dean makes to pull all the way back and stand, but not before leaning down to Sam’s ear. “I want to suck you off in the car,” he whispers, and it takes everything in Sam to not yank him back down and say _fuck it_ to the audience and the social suicide.

“Goddamnit,” he whimpers instead, and lets Dean pull him up and lead him out of the group.

Someone wolf-whistles while someone else retches and Dean just laughs the entire way up the stairs. When they reach the top, he slips his hand into Sam’s back pocket to palm at his ass.

“Dean.” Sam’s going for reprimanding, but he doesn’t think he gets there.

Dean just leans a little closer, nosing behind Sam’s ear, breath hot. “Make me, Sammy.”

Sam can’t help the little growl that makes its way out of his throat, or the way he hurries them to the front door and back out to the Impala.

 

* * *

 

 

On Monday, Sam is positive that he’s going to be run out of the school. It’s probably fine if he is – as long as no rumors get back to John – but he’s not exactly looking forward to it all the same.

However, there’s a distinct lack of fanfare when he enters the school. He pauses, unsure if he should trust it, but then the warning bell rings and gets his feet moving. The lack of response – even when he makes eye contact with people that were definitely at that party – makes him suspicious, but if no one is going to pick the issue, he’ll leave it alone too.

He wonders, all the way through his first two periods, why. It isn’t until he goes to his locker before his third period that he figures it out.

Christine/Catherine is across the hallway, giggles when she sees him. He can hear her friends’ hissing whispers and prepares himself for the worst, but then her voice cuts over all the murmuring.

“Yeah, but it’s fine. Sam’s totally adopted.” She throws a look his way as she says it.

Sam has to duck into his locker and bang around a bit to cover his snort.

If she’s gonna give it to him, he’ll totally take the out. He gives her a thumbs up, a smile, and a nod, and she and  her friends are off to giggling again.

Dean won’t _believe_ this.

**Author's Note:**

> The kudos I've been getting on my last fic are definitely to blame for this.
> 
> This author requires validation.


End file.
